to see the rose and woodbine twine
by Hinotorihime
Summary: "I want this war to be over, he does not say, because they have both been soldiers for so many long, cold centuries." Silence speaks louder than words, but not everyone hears the same thing. [WWII-era: codebreaker!Poland, 1941.]
**short plotless not-quite-drabble that's been sitting on my hard drive for a few months.**

 **warning for Poland's foul mouth and references to sensitive historical events.**

 **Polish codebreakers were the first to make significant progress on cracking the Enigma code.**

 **in September 1941, Auschwitz-Birkenau began full operations. six of the Nazis' nine dedicated extermination camps were located on Polish soil.**

* * *

There's a light still on in one of the rooms, red and dull against the pale night. It flickers, like an irregular heartbeat, and the intermittent flares of almost-gold illuminate blankets tacked against the inside of the window in a vain attempt to keep some sort of heat in.

England leans against the wall for a moment.

He feels thin, stretched, but that's normal these days; the burns on his chest throb so constantly he barely notices them anymore.

The door flies open, spilling dim light out onto the snow.

"Dude, are you coming in? Or you just gonna stand there looking pitiful? _I_ don't really care if you freeze your balls off but I was just wondering—"

"I am not pitiful," says England stiffly, reflexively, as he ducks inside.

"Didn't say that! You _look_ pitiful. There's a difference. I mean, I'm sure you were going for tragic and noble but with that blond mop you call a hairstyle I don't think you can really pull it off."

"Feliks, what are you _talking_ about?"

"Your hair and what a disgrace it is," says Poland promptly, "get with the program, Anglia. Do you not listen to a word I say?"

His ever-present smirk has a strange quirk in it, and not for the first time since he showed up on England's doorstep with sheets of half-broken cyphers crumpled in burnt fingers, Arthur gets an uneasy sense of something cold and intense coiled up behind Feliks's lazy, heavy-lidded gaze.

"I'm...surprised you're here. I thought you would be at the barracks."

Poland shrugs. "You've got enough pilots. I'm doing more good here, probably. With my _centuries of expertise_."

He pauses, almost expectantly.

"...no _I wasn't aware you could write_? Wow. I'm touched, Anglia."

"Your admittedly impressive combat skills," says England drily, "have encouraged me to attempt not to underestimate you. —It doesn't appear to be working."

"No shit," says Poland cheerfully. "Seriously, though. You can sit down if you want. Just right over—uh, where _can_ you sit?"

There are chairs in the room, but they're all covered in papers. Even the wall has notes on it— _on it,_ directly on the wallpaper, the landlady will be _livid—_ in a surprisingly neat albeit hasty scrawl, and before he can stop himself England thinks _He really has been taking this seriously_.

Of course he has. Having your homeland carved up from under your feet tends to put your priorities in order.

"I can stand. It's fine."

Poland shrugs, plops back down in his chair, and begins pushing a leaking pen around the desk with his forefinger.

"So did you, like, need something? Or did you just want to see me? I'm working, you know. Always working these days, busy busy busy, feel like I'm one of you English who don't know how to have fun…"

"Fun is unfortunately a rather scarce commodity these days."

"Oh, so then could I get it on that fab black market of yours I'm not supposed to know about?"

"What?"

"Ah, don't worry about it," says Poland airily, "everyone has one. It's kinda nice, really, even if I feel bad about using it _myself._ But it means my people are getting more of what they need so it's comforting knowing it's there, you know? Or maybe not," he adds, seeing the expression on England's face.

"Black markets are against the law, Feliks. Hence, 'black'. The rationing is there for a reason, and my people may not like it but they abide by it."

"Not all of them, I can tell you that," Poland says softly. "And you know what? It shouldn't matter. Criminals are ours too."

Was that _anger_?

"I didn't say they weren't. Of course I'm disappointed but still—Poland, you're a Nation too. You should know this!"

Poland's hand is clenched white around the pen, ink oozing between his fingers. He looks down and appears to register this with mild surprise; slowly, the fist relaxes.

"I had—bad news, earlier. Sorry. I'm not—I'm okay."

Very bad news, if he's showing it; England knows that at least. Suddenly he notices that there are bandages wrapped tightly around Poland's left forearm.

"It's alright," he says lamely. "We're all under stress. As long as the irritability doesn't affect our work…"

"Yeah, yeah. I'll be fine in the morning." Or faking it, anyway. "I'm just _pissed_ at Germany. More than pissed, actually. I've been pissed at him since all of this started, you know, the whole give-an-inch-take-a-mile thing—"

England winces. That was definitely directed at him; Poland is _furious_.

"—but all that's just war, right? I can deal with that." He stares down at his code charts, his lips twisting. "Ngh, but you totally didn't come here to listen to me be all gross and depressing."

"I..." _am not sure why I came anymore._ There's something about the way the lamp is throwing the colour of Poland's narrow eyes into a fierce blaze of molten gold. It feels... off. It should be beautiful but it isn't. It's not beautiful in the least.

Somehow, _haunted_ isn't the right word either.

"What happened?" England says instead. Poland laughs, high and bright and brittle.

"It doesn't matter. You won't take me seriously anyway, amirite? Let's talk about you."

"Pola—"

"I know pretty much how the air raids are going. What about the infantry?" Poland interrupts, leaning forward across the desk and propping his chin on his hand with an air of calculated nonchalance. Perhaps England should just allow his ally some measure of dignity and not upset him by pressing for further information.

 _(One day, after the war: the closest to hysterics he will have ever seen his friend. "I'm just silly Slavic Polska—I don't matter, my **children** don't matter, my **land** doesn't matter it's there to be burned and—and— **defiled** and they were **dying** , England, I could feel them! ___Every one of them, not just mine Liet's and Norway's and Czechia's and **his** even, **his own people** —!_"_

 _"I would have believed you. I would have listened if you'd—"_

 _"No," and the boy's voice will go eerily flat. "You wouldn't have. **Don't**_ **_pretend_** _.")_

(Maybe he's just a coward. Still unwilling to accept that such a flighty creature could have any depth tying him to earth. Too uncomfortable a thought, even after everything, that Poland could ever have _feelings_.)

"I'm sure you've been keeping up with the news," England hedges. Poland snorts and gestures expansively at his piles of notes.

"Course I have. But it's not like I trust the official stuff, not with all this shit I've been having to work on, so I wanna hear _your_ opinion. Are we going to be tied up in Libya much longer?"

"We're making progress. It's slow, but..."

"Better than nothing," finishes Poland. He takes a long, deep breath and his eyes flick away from England's face. "I just want—" and he stops, and _I want this war to be over_ , he does not say, because they have both been soldiers for so many long, cold centuries, and by now those words are unnecessary. He sighs and lets his long blond locks swing forward to cover his face, hunching a little, and for a moment he looks as old and weary and defeated as England himself feels. The light casts blue shadows on his thin face. His cheekbones slice through the air; the ends of his hair are getting ragged.

Then, with a visible effort, he straightens. Pastes on the familiar sunny smile and chirps, "I'd like a proper light, for starters! Geez, Anglia, you know what this is, like, doing to my eyes? And my complexion? Doesn't help the bags, either _—_ "

If they were different people, England maybe would say _Stop. Poland. I know you're tired, I know you're hurting, I know you're homesick. You don't have to pretend._ And Poland maybe would let the smile drop and a tear or two fall onto the letter charts. And maybe, they would sit together through the long night, give in to the weariness for just a few hours, tell each other that when morning came they would for just once not be alone.

But they are Arthur and Feliks, and so England walks quietly to the door and leaves Poland to his smiles and his codes and the flickering lamp.


End file.
